I love and have always loved Dolly Parton since I was just a wee tot. My sister and I used to watch the part in The Beverly Hillbillies movie where Dolly sang at the wedding over and over, singing along. Additionally, the ballsy Doralee Rhodes Parton played in 9 to 5 proved to all the ladies of the 80’s (and today) that they’re not just some stupid secretaries.
One of my favorite things about Dolly Parton is that she don’ give a shit. She’s expressive, endlessly optimistic, and open. She’s an anomaly in her Southern trannie-channelling wardrobe and wigs that manages to draw a multi-demographic crowd of fans. She’s a woman who is painted head to toe in glitter and glue and yet I’m pretty sure she could make a grown man cry while kicking his ass.
A quote from a The New Yorker issue a few months back made my heart swell even more for Dolly.
“When [Tammy] Wynette was dying, Parton would go to the hospital and put makeup on her and fix her hair. As she talked, her fingers fanned and dipped like hummingbirds with long, red acrylic proboscises.”
What a gal.